


Adrift

by Jersey



Series: Gone Native [6]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Vingt mille lieues sous les mers | Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea - Jules Verne
Genre: Dragons, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Mind Control, Recovery, Slow Burn, archaeopteryx
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 03:13:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16526243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jersey/pseuds/Jersey
Summary: An epilogue of sorts.After the battle is won, with the Captain dead and Ker Kerraje's forces defeated, Tony is left in the rubble of his lives - both Tony Stark and Harrow. He struggles to find himself once more in the void left by the flyers and the destruction of the Nautilus.





	Adrift

**ADRIFT**

It takes hours for the man once known as Scout Harrow and now known as Tony Stark once more to return to the Tower – once his castle, now his….. he is not even certain what the Tower is to him beyond a safe haven for now – and it is by no means an easy or simple task.

First, he must coax the beast known as the Hulk to stay near, to settle. Tony knows he should be afraid of the Hulk, yet he is not. He has faced monsters and road them through the heavens, danced across the clouds and skimmed over the ocean’s fury untouched. Tony holds his ground as the Hulk bellows and rages in his face, even as spittle flecks his cheek, yet he does not response, does not yield even as Ras shrieks and roars behind him possessively. In time, the Hulk stills briefly, as though shaken by Tony’s lack of response, before stumbling away and shuddering back into the soft, unassuming figure of Dr. Bruce Banner. The physicist writhes on the ground as his body reforms, then, he lies there amid the grime and filth of the city street as his body and mind equilibrate to the complexities of human

Even then, Tony waits quietly until Bruce has gathered himself enough to roll over, blink owlishly, and gasp, “Did we win?”

Tony smiles despite the weight he feels clinging to him and shrugs slightly. “Something like that.” He offers a hand to Bruce, helping the man up from the ground. “We good?”

Bruce nods oddly, his head bobby up and down as though nervously. “Yeah, yeah.” He looks to Tony and, then, beyond, to the fallen Ras with a pregnant pause. “Are we good?”

Tony considers the question carefully, in a way that seems ill-fitting that man he had been but more in keeping with the man he has become – with Scout Harrow. They are not good, and Tony knows this. The streets of New York lie in shambles. Ras needs to be moved and treated before any idiot should be foolish enough to draw near to a cornered, injured beast of his strength, size, and ferocity. He has not heard from Steve about Dr. Tate, and there is still the question of any remaining crew and their entirely questionable loyalties.

However, he gives a slow nod to Dr. Banner and approaches Ras carefully. The beast bristles and raises its keen lips, but the mighty _Archaeopteryx_ does not move to attack. It is merely a warning.

_‘I am in pain,’_ Ras tells him wordlessly. _‘Do not make it worse,’_ the flyer pleads by gesture alone. _‘Do not make me kill you.’_

In his time at the sides of these creatures and their fearless riders, Tony has come to learn their complex patterns, their fickle whims and emotions. He steps carefully to the battered beast, telegraphing his motions to Ras well in advance. The creature gives another low, throaty growl, but that is all. When Tony gets close, he tarries away from the broken wing. Instead, he lingers close to Ras’s head, stroking the massive muzzle to settle the seething _Archaeopteyx_. Ras leans into the touch, practically preening and purring at the feel. There is something unsettling to such a need and acceptance of tenderness from a creature Tony has only ever seen as an untamed alpha male.

Ras shudders under his touch. For a painful moment, Tony thinks that the beast is dying. However, it is not death throes, but a deeper growl as Ras narrows his golden eyes. When the inventor darts a quick glance over his shoulder, he spots police officers creeping closer and closer. His heart leaps in his throat, thinking this is to be the undignified end of Ras, yet the officers keep their firearms holstered. They keep their distance, forming a protective circle about the _Archaeopteryx_ , his rider, and Dr. Banner. His own fears assuaged, Tony affectionately rubs Ras’s nose, stilling the beast now that he knows they will not kill him.

Only once Tony is certain that Ras will not turn and crunch those monstrous teeth through his spine does the inventor nod. “Let’s go home.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It takes Steve an appalling long time to realize that the pliant, little red and white dog in his arms requires serious veterinary care. He has never had a dog in his life. Before the war, there had simply been no money for a dog, the food, or any of the needs of a dog. After the war and the ice, there had just been no time in his life for a pet of any kind. As such, Steve has only a limited understanding of a canine and its needs, but it is enough to realize the dog needs care.

After he realizes such, Steve has Jarvis bring up the addresses for every veterinarian office on Manhattan Island and rushes his precious cargo there. The first vet’s office is closed, the shutters drawn and the lights off. Steve swears but understands; who would open a veterinary office after everything that has happened on that day? He hustles to the next emergency office but finds that closed as well. Fortunately, the third office he tries is open and staffed.

The waiting room is flooded with frantic, haggard pet owners, all desperate to have their four-legged family members seen quickly. Steve winces at the sight. The needs of the City and its citizens – animal and not – do not pause merely for a little thing like a massive aerial battle.

Yet, when the perky and overly flirtatious receptionist recognizes him as _the_ Captain America, he is immediately whisked away into a back exam room. There, he is left for a moment to catch his breath and gently place the unconscious canine down onto the cold, steel table. Only then does Steve have a chance to survey the pup before him. It is a frivolous sort of breed, with a somewhat flat, chubby face and soft curling to its fur, particularly lining the long, floppy ears. Its right forelimb dangles oddly, too loosely for Steve’s liking.

It wears an unusual collar laden with clunky electronics that Steve does not recognize as Tony’s handiwork. Steve studies it closely for a moment before arriving to the easiest conclusion; that he has absolutely no clue what it does. When the vet does arrive and spies the poor, pathetic beast Steve has brought, the quaintly elderly man with snowy hair immediately shucks off the collar and presses it into Steve’s hands before whisking the dog away to some back area where even super-soldier and hero credentials will allow him.

Steve waits and turns the leather collar over in his hands again and again for what feels like an eternity before the veterinarian returns – without the dog. The old man apologies profusely but explains that they have limited options. The canine’s right shoulder is apparently shattered from some intense trauma, too badly to pin, leaving the vet with little choice. The best and perhaps only options are to amputate the limb or to put the dog down.

Steve blinks stupidly. He does not know what this dog means to Tony, but it is clearly significant if the inventor ferried it back from the doomed airship before it came crashing down into New York Bay. It would be inappropriate to make a decision without Tony, but the vet is insistent.

When the vet presses once more and starts bringing up ethical responsibilities, Steve finds himself blurting out, “Do it. Amputate.”

It seems the only equitable decision to be made without Tony.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Unsurprisingly, the Tower is in a state of utter madness even after hours of walking the limping, snarling Ras down the chaotic streets of Manhattan with their impromptu police escort. Yet, Tony has no time for such mania with Ras so injured; he ignores the confusion and the crowds in favor of tending to the flyer. Every step of the way requires Tony’s undivided focus upon Ras to keep the flyer from pouncing upon his would be protectors in a blind, agony driven rage. Unable to hoist Ras aloft to the penthouse, he brings the creature down, into a vacant parking garage below the Tower – a holdover from days before the World Trade Center bombing that had served for some time as nothing but a glorified proving ground for a few of the Ironman suits – where the tension finally bleeds from him.

At least, he feels himself settle until he looks once more to the ghastly sight that is Ras’s damaged wing. The thing is beyond mangled. A hole has been torn right through the side, and a portion of it appears misshapen at best, likely from an ill landing upon the unforgiving asphalt and concrete. The blood is already beginning to puddle in a small, scarlet pool beneath the beast. Ras’s respiration is shaky and labored from the injury and the hike to the Tower.

“Bruce…” Tony breathes uncertainly, a hand still upon the dark, thick neck of the flyer as the uncertainty bubbles up once more inside him.

The physicist grimaces slightly. “Tony, I’m at a loss. I don’t…” He gestures to the creature, as though a mere wave of his hands can explain where the words fail him before trying once more. “Tony, I know about general _human_ medicine, not veterinary medicine.”

Tony feels his heart cracking oddly, as though the shrapnel in his chest has been shuffled loose once again. “Please…” Something warm prickles at his eyes; he crushes the lids shut before asking, “Can’t you just try? Please?”

Bruce melts. He has never heard Tony Stark say “please,” except in decidedly sarcastic circumstances, nor has he ever heard anything akin to begging. This is alien territory for the physicist. He is not certain how to act around this version of Tony, how to respond appropriately and kindly without the sort of pandering that Bruce knows Tony will not stand. However, when he spies the pain welling up in those chocolate eyes along with the slick sheen of unshed tears, Bruce cannot deny his friend whatever little assistance he can be.

“I’ll try.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

With a heart heavy with the cumbersome burden of his all-consuming uncertainty, Steve signs the myriad of papers presented to him by the veterinary staff. He listens to their meaningless platitudes and promises of their skill without truly hearing before handing back their pen, clipboard, and legal papers. One of the vet techs presses the thick, leather collar into Steve’s hands and assures him that they will keep him well informed.

After that, Steve stumbles through the streets of New York in a daze, clutching the collar closely as his feet instinctively ferrying him back to the Tower. A few daring and inquisitive fans almost approach, pointing and gawking in delight at Captain American; Steve had almost completely forgotten about his uniform in his flight to find an open veterinary office. One holds up a smartphone, as though to ask permission for a photo or selfie with the hero, but, for the first time in perhaps his entire life as Captain America, Steve waves them off with a faint gesture. He is too exhausted, too frayed and worn to pose for even the most well-meaning of fans.

At the base of the Tower, Steve finds the street soaked in scarlet, absolutely drenched in blood. He   blinks in horror at the sight, but the officers meandering about the entrance to the parking garage seem accustomed to the hideous stains, milling about without care. One of them even spots Steve and gives a friendly wave to the super soldier.

A shriek echoes from the concrete catacomb beneath the Tower, reverberating harshly against the cold stone and out, into the street. It is the unmistakable roar of one of those feathered beasts. The officers and Steve alike jump at the sound.

“RAS!” Tony’s voice cracks like a whip below. “Settle!” The inventor speaks softly now, so soft that Steve is certain only his enhanced senses allows him to hear. “Easy, easy, Ras. Settle.”

Steve and the officers draw closer to the entrance, curiously now. It does not escape Steve’s notice that the officers do not step directly into the mouth of the parking garage. Instead, they linger back, on the balls of their feet, as though primed for flight should Tony fail to calm Ras. They have not forgotten what manner of creature is down below, injured, enraged, and cornered in alien territory. It is good of them; it is smart.

Unfortunately, Steve has not always made the most intelligent of decisions, he is forced to admit to himself with a sigh before trudging down the ramp and into the cool depths of the garage. Normal, human eyes would take a few moments to adjust to the dim light, but his eyes almost instantly accommodate the shift in light, allowing him to take in the curious vignette before approaching too closely.

And what a sight it is to behold. Tony Stark – a man Steve has never known to show any semblance of kindness or empathy for any animal – practically cuddling a feathered dragon without the protection of the Ironman suit that stands idly at the side, likely in sentry mode. The inventor hugs Ras almost bodily by the beast’s head, pressing his forehead to the wide expanse between large, golden eyes that flash and gleam in the pale light. He rubs his forehead against Ras’s, nuzzling the _Archaeopteryx_ as one of its kin might while wordless sounds of soothing pour from his lips. Ras snarls deeply, but the sound hangs dying upon those inhuman lips as Tony’s hand strokes the monster’s chin lovingly. All the while, Bruce stands aside from the tender scene, his hands dripping with blood.

“Hush, hush,” Tony croons in tones barely audible to even Steve. “It’s over. It’s done, now.”

Now that the words have escaped him, Steve cannot help but truly survey the creature. Ras’s wing has been crudely set and bound with strips of cables and scraps of PVC pipe. It hangs oddly at his side, dragging when the _Archaeopteryx_ shifts its weight to lean into the inventor.

Those golden eyes slide shut as though blissfully for a shadow of a second before opening once more and settling firmly upon the super soldier at the entry. His lips curl in the faintest hint of a growl, but it does not come. Steve knows from the dull sheen to Ras’s eyes that the beast is spent. The battle and his grievous injuries have stolen the fight from him. This does not mean that Steve will let down his guard in front of Ras.

Tony shushes the creature quickly before turning his gaze to Steve and drawing in a gasp. “Where’s Tate?”

Steve nearly starts and shakes his head uncertainly. “I don’t…”

Tony breaks from Ras, crosses the distance between them with swift, determined strides, snatches the collar and shakes it in Steve’s face. “The dog, damnit! Where is the dog?”

 “I took him to the vet,” Steve breathes, bewildered by the sudden fright in Tony. He paws about his uniform, produces a business card, and presses it into the inventor’s hand. “Here.”

Tony blanches oddly. “It’s bad, isn’t it?”

The super soldier feels his heart fall at the sight of Tony so vulnerable, so haggard and worry-worn. He has been secretly hoping to avoid the subject of the dog’s injuries, unsure what the animal means to the inventor and uncertain how Tony will take the news. He has not wanted to admit making the decision for Tony. However, now that Stark holds him in his gaze, Steve cannot stop himself from letting it all out.

After that, Tony just stares, dumbfounded, before shaking his head in shock. “Amputation….” He gapes briefly at the concept before asking a most curious of question. “How’d he take it?”

“Tony…” Steve’s heart gives another uncomfortable quake, and he must swallow hard before he can continue. “Tony, it’s a dog. How’s he supposed to take it?”

Something flickers in those chocolate eyes, and, for a brief moment, the inventor appears downright stricken. “You didn’t….?” His lip trembles, and he pleads desperately, “Steve, tell me you didn’t.” He laughs, an awkward and almost stilting barking sound, entirely mirthless. “You didn’t know. You _couldn’t_ know.” Tony breaks in that moment, his voice cracking. “Take me to him. I need to see him.”

“The vet said they’d call and keep us posted.”

Tony snaps as ferociously as any of the _Archaeopteryx_ , “I’m going.” He glances over his shoulder to Bruce and barks, “Hold the fort, Banner.”

 The physicist opens his mouth to balk, but Tony is gone before he can even utter, “I’d really rather not.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

As soon as he steps back out, into the light, Tony looks down to the business card he has crushed in his hand. It is rumpled and wrinkled, but the address and name upon the card remains perfectly legible. He has not walked the streets and avenues of New York City in years, it feels, but one never really forgets how to navigate the complex grids of the city once they have learned. He stomps confidently down the street, with Steve trotting after him.

“Tony, Tony, wait,” Steve calls after him.

Tony continues on, ignoring the super soldier. He cannot bring himself to face Steve, to tell him what he has done. He knows better than to attack a man who honestly thought he was _helping_. Tony knows there is no way Steve could possibly know what he has done wrong, the boyscout that he is. Instead, the scout keeps walking down to the address on the card, trying desperately not to hear Steve’s pleading or the many shocked gasps and exclamations of curious onlookers.

When they reach the vet’s office, the same receptionist who had so eagerly greeted Steve not too long before is still there. She offers another perky, overly saccharine smile to Rogers, but that flirty face withers beneath Tony’s glare. Steve apologizes for his friend and former compatriot, trying to sweet talk the woman into letting the inventor see the dog, but she politely declines and informs the odd pair that the animal in question is currently in surgery.

Tony leans over the desk and informs the receptionist in a low, strained tone, “I’ll wait.”

He turns on his heel and takes a seat in the waiting area, folding his arms across his chest as he sits. From any other man, or even just all that time ago before Tony vanished, it would seem a rude display. However, now, it seems merely a pensive posture, quiet and inwardly reflecting. Steve finds himself pondering if this is from his time with the _Nautilus_ or if it is merely the cumulative effects of the day catching up with the inventor.

Steve sinks into the seat beside Tony. The uncomfortably molded plastic digs uneasily into his bruised flesh, but his body is already healing its self. The bruises will be gone in no time, even the deeper contusions wrought by the _Archaeopteryx_. The captain knows the inventor must be miserable by compare, but Tony bears it without comment, without even a hint of the discontent.

Together, they wait in silence as life continues to bustle about them.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

To the chagrin of Pepper Potts, when Weatherlight had circled the top of Stark Tower and called the strangers and their deadly beasts off to the wing, not all of the strangers elected to leave with the black beasts. Instead, some remain, even still, perhaps a half dozen or so of them. They linger, in a daze, atop the Tower, some pacing the balcony, others perched upon the scant seating allotted between the designer’s touch and the space requirements of the original Ironman suit assembly arcs. They appear lost in a way, unsure of where to progress.

For a time, Pepper stares at them from the other side of the windows, chewing on her lip. She does not know what to do with them either. If what Tony has said is true, they may have little to no memory of their lives, may not even have lives to pick up after however long they have been lost to the civilized world.

In time, the professional in Pepper forces herself to straighten herself, step outside the doors to the balcony, and announce authoritatively, “Hello. My name is Pepper Potts, CEO of Stark Industries. I know you’re a bit lost right now, but I’d like to help. If you’d just step inside, I can order something for breakfast, and we can discuss your options.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Hours pass. Life continues to ebb and flow in and out of the office waiting room around them. Dogs. Cats. Birds. A variety of pet life goes in and out as Tony and Steve wait in uncomfortable silence. The waiting room fills and empties like the tide through the wait. Yet, as those animals pass in and out of the swinging door to the back examination rooms, there is no word on the dog Steve brought.

Several of the customers to the office recognize Steve and Tony. Who wouldn’t? It is impossible not to notice them granted each of their unusual uniforms, and both of their faces are utterly unforgettable. Even beneath the long braids and black leathers, there is no mistaking Tony Stark. They smile and wave awkwardly, but, fortunately, none approach. The other customers must implicitly understand that now is most assuredly not the time.

Steve finds himself glancing about the office uncomfortably just to avoid unnecessary eye contact with any of the strangers. He alternates visual focus between the sparse framed prints which can only charitably be described as “decoration.” The first depicts cartoon princesses cuddling doe-eyed animals, incongruously imploring people to adopt. The second lists reasons to vaccinate pets alongside a pile of floppy puppies of various breeds. The last is ludicrously juvenile poem about picking a pet bedecked by fanciful animals dangling dangerously from the words. Steve slowly comes to memorize each in turn.

In time, the veterinarian returns to them after the waiting room has emptied once more. When he calls to Steve and Tony, the inventor jumps and blinks slowly before stretching out. Steve flushes; he had not noticed that Tony must have dozed during the long vigil.

“How is he?” Tony blurts out, his voice cracking with what might be fear.

The veterinarian smiles indulgently, like a doting grandfather or uncle. “Your pup’s going to be fine. It’s going to take a little while for him to learn to get around, but he’ll sort it out faster than you’d think.”

Like a small, worried child, Tony pleads, “Can I see him? Please?”

The vet apologizes softly, stating gently that Stark cannot see the dog, not yet. He offers complicated explanations that Steve barely comprehends. However, the simple fact of the matter is that the canine is still under the effects of the anesthesia, still sleeping. The veterinarian assures Tony that the dog is being carefully monitored and tended, with 24/7 staff.

“Please,” Tony’s voice cracks as he shakes his head. “You don’t understand…. I can’t….” He grits his teeth and turns away, to Steve now. “She asked me to take care of him.”

Before Tony can break down in front of him, Steve comes to his aid as best he can. “Here.” He grabs a business card from the front desk and a pen to scribble down his personal number. “Call us as soon as he wakes up.” When Steve gives the card to vet, he insists firmly, “As _soon_ as he wakes.”

The older man nods, and Steve thanks him. He shakes the vet’s hand once more. Tony mutters something to akin to gratitude, but the inventor does not shake the veterinarian’s hand. Instead, Steve is forced to haul his friend and compatriot up by the arm.  Tony gives a token fight, but he is too tired to muster anything resembling a struggle to stay. The inventor sways once he gets to his feet, but Steve ferries him by the elbow out of the office and back, towards the Tower.

Only once they have put a block or so between them and the office does Steve dare ask, “He’s not _just_ a dog, is he?”

Tony freezes and gapes, utterly dumbfounded at the question, but, after an uncomfortable long moment of working his mouth, he shakes his head. “No. He’s not.”

Steve nods to himself, processing the information. It should be odd or unnatural, but Steve has seen enough “unnatural” things in his life to know there is nothing of the sort. He has seen gods and monsters going toe to toe on the streets of New York. He has now seen not one but two species of flying beasts tearing through the skies overhead. He has spent seventy years frozen in ice, only to find and lose a friend who has suffered a similar fate. A dog that is more than just a humble dog is perhaps the most normal thing in his abnormal world.

Steve puts his arm about Tony’s shoulders. “He’ll be okay.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

It takes time to sort the strangers out. There are six of them who have chosen to remain; two women and four men. Pepper recoils mentally from the terms “ladies” and “gentleman” each time she addresses the strangers, for these are not the meek, polite creatures such niceties imply. These are warriors, albeit somewhat addled and unsure due to the sudden flux of memories once lost to them.

They have names, the woman knows, but none elect to share their true identities with Pepper. They do not trust her, not enough to allow themselves to be so open and vulnerable. Pepper does not need to assume this; they offer admission freely.

Instead, they introduce themselves by what sound like codenames. The tall, elegant man is Marin. The stranger with the sharp eyes and jagged scar down his cheek is Sovereign. The towering man who might loom over even Steve is Heron, and at his side stands Narukami. The woman with the black war paint smeared beneath each of her eyes is Maya. The platinum blonde dubs herself Edge. Pepper would know these names are fabrications even if they had not plainly told her.

After they are settled in the lavish penthouse about the overly impressive dining table, Pepper outlines their options. Without knowing their lives before the _Nautilus_ , there is little Pepper can do aside from providing comfortable lodging and assistance in contacting any friends or loved ones. That seems enough to satisfy them. They each take her offer for a phone alone and disperse to the various rooms to privately reconnect with what little remains of their former lives. She resolutely does not pry; it is too personal for a stranger such as she to intrude.

By dusk, Pepper has arranged transportation to each of them back to whatever remains of their lives. She wishes each of them well and ensures that they have anything they will need that is in her power to provide before leaving. Normal, passable clothes. Spending money. Pre-paid mobile devices. Pepper sees each of them off, but they largely ignore the businesswoman in favor of bidding one another farewell. They hug one another, lingering in their shared embraces in a way that makes Pepper feel acutely out of place and uncomfortable bearing witness to such vulnerability.

The last to leave, however, is Marin. He has none of his compatriots to see him off. Instead, he has only Pepper. He thanks her cordially and clasps her hand and wrist in both his strong palms in a gesture that seems absolutely antiquated. Yet, from this strange, exquisite creature that is Marin, it seems perfectly natural.

“Thank you,” he tells her in a voice as smooth as velvet. “And thank Harrow.”

Pepper bristles briefly at the name. It still irritates her that they call him ‘Harrow,’ but the woman firmly stamps down her own annoyance. They had not known him to be Tony. They had only ever known him as Harrow.

All she can say is, “I will.”

He nods, and, then, Marin is gone as well.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

When Tony and Steve finally return to the Tower, it surprises Steve that Tony eschews the front entrance in favor of returning to the parking garage. He knows Tony is exhausted, dead on his feet so-to-speak. Yet, instead of returning to the lavish penthouse and its plush beds, Tony continues to trudge beyond the entry and around to the ramp that leads down to the dark garage. Steve follows, concerned now that the inventor has begun to slow down, as though what little has been keeping him upright has finally burnt away.

A few officers stand guard at the top of the ramp. They snap to attention as soon as they notice Steve and Tony, but Steve waves them off. He is fairly certain that Tony does not require or desire their assistance.

Ras shrieks in greeting as Tony draws near, sending shivers down Steve’s spine as Bruce visibly cringes away from the sound. It is shrill and piercing confined to the garage. The super soldier wonders if the reverberation might be loud enough to do physical damage to Tony’s decidedly human ears, but the bone-tired man hardly reacts save to outstretch his arms to Ras.

To Steve’s continued surprise, as Tony pitches forward, Ras closes the distance between them. Tony stumbles and catches himself upon Ras’s muzzle. The beast offers a sort of odd cooing noise in greeting. Tony reaches up and strokes the black feathered face as Ras slowly eases them both to the ground to curl up on one another. Tony eases into Ras, snuggling into the ebony feathers as his body goes lax. Slumber rapidly takes both of them whole as the weight of the day finally claims them both.

Steve steps forward to balk, to argue, to suggest rightfully that Tony should be sleeping in a bed, but Ras raises his lip and lets out a low, warning growl without even cracking open an eye. Bruce catches him by the wrist and shakes his head. Steve blinks stupidly and holds his breath, staring in wonder. Yet, when the super soldier does not move nor flinch a muscle, Ras settles, snuggling closer to Tony while keeping his head slightly cocked towards Steve, ever listening. The beast stills protectively perched about Tony and nothing further.

Bruce bodily drags Steve away before whispering, “Leave him.” Bruce glances to the monster that encircles Tony’s abruptly small and fragile seeming body. “He’ll be okay.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

When Harrow or Tony Stark wakes from a deep, dreamless sleep with a start, it is to a strange, lingering confusion. Dimly lit concrete surrounds him in place of the elegant, burnished metal structures covered in gleaming filigree or in place of ludicrous thread count sheets and sleek, glass structure. A massive flyer – Ras – curls about him in place of the smaller Gulliver or the lithe, athletic body of Pepper Potts snuggled up against him. His mind lurches painfully back and forth between two lives, but neither of which fit the utterly incongruously circumstances of his stirring.

It takes time for his uncertain and clashing memories to settle enough to allow Tony to survey his surroundings in earnest and to remember. He does not recall falling asleep with Ras in the disused parking garage of Stark Tower, yet, there he is all the same. He has no concept of how long they have lain on the cold, unyielding floor of the garage. Judging from the various aches and pains of his body, it has been some time, but those discomforts may also be from the battle before. Tony cannot be certain exactly.

Ras shifts his weight and whimpers faintly from the motion. Instinctively, Tony reaches to sooth the creature, rubbing its nose affectionately. The massive _Archaeopteryx_ nuzzles into Tony, growling slightly against his own hurts as his broad golden eyes slide shut.

Tony forces himself to rise at the thought of the beast; Ras will be hungry soon and unable to hunt. He has never known any of the _Archaeopteryx_ to go hungry, and, as such, has little inclination as to how the creatures react to such instinctive and pressing needs. Weatherlight never divulged such information. Ras might acquiesce and remain compliant, or he might turn upon his keepers and feast upon the human kin he has claimed. Tony knows these are both equally possible outcomes, neither of which he should like to see.

“Hey,” a timid voice greets hesitantly from a few yards away; Banner.

The physicist appears showered and rested, dressed in clothes that Tony does not recognize. Bruce has refreshed himself, changed, and likely slumbered judging by the brightness to his eyes and the crisp, clean scent of fresh laundry. Even as he crouches, Bruce’s slacks appear only slightly wrinkled by wear. It gives the scout pause to ponder precisely how long he and Ras have slept in the concrete catacombs of the parking garage. At the realization, Tony scrubs his eyes with the back of his hand, but it serves little use.

“Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty,” Bruce teases gently, his tone almost fatherly in a way.

Tony grunts as he rises. “How long?”

Bruce shrugs. “A little under thirteen hours.” When Tony says nothing, the physicist goes on. “Steve and I’ve been alternating watch.” When Tony’s stomach twists and growls with need, Bruce chuckles warmly and inquires, “Hungry?”

Tony offers a small nod, just enough to demonstrate that he is listening and capable of responding. However, he cares not for his own bodily needs, not yet. First, he must tend to Ras. Yet, Tony has no means of fishing or hunting with Ras so efficiently grounded, and he has no money to his name to his knowledge. He briefly considers stealing something for Ras from any of New York’s many markets, but Tony knows he is too recognizable to accomplish such a feat. He folds his arms across his stomach.

Bruce senses the discomfort to him and asks, “Hey, what’s wrong?” When Tony merely presses his lips together in a thin line, Bruce presses, “Talk to me, Tony. Tell me what’s going on in there.”

“Ras,” Tony breathes.

Bruce glances to the beast just feet away and ventures an educated guess, “Piscivore?” When Tony just starts at the word stupidly, the physicist clarifies quickly, “Does he eat fish?”

Tony nods slowly, stiff and uncomfortable in a way. Life had been so much easier on the _Nautilus_ , for all its many faults. There had been an easy understanding among the crew and the flyers. There had been no hesitance. There had also been no need to ask assistance; help had always been simply provided to those who needed it without request. Any need he telegraphed to Weatherlight, the other scouts, or even to Gully had been met by near instantaneous response.

“Well, I bet you and your friend could stand for some room service,” Bruce announces warmly.

Before Tony can say a word, Bruce strides off, leaving the once great inventor with the fallen Ras. A part of Tony knows this is how it is meant to be. So very long ago, they had been part of a team, they had been friends. He faintly recalls those first strange hours aboard the original helicarrier working in the lab together. Yet, it feels paradoxically alien after all his time at Weatherlight’s side.

Fortunately, Ras leaves little time for Tony to lull in such uncertainty. The _Archaeopteryx_ clambers gracelessly to its feet and immediately hisses when his injured wing contacts the floor. Tony turns to comfort him, and the hiss swells to a rib rattling snarl. Then, just as quickly, it dies on Ras’s lips as the beast recognizes the scout before him. In that brief give, Tony crosses the space and throws his arms about Ras’s broad muzzle, desperately stroking beneath the creature’s chin and rubbing his head against the flyer’s to sooth Ras any way he can. Ras whimpers beneath his ministrations.

Then, quite suddenly, Ras stiffens beneath Tony’s fingers, his lips raising and parting in silent warning as those golden eyes narrow to focus on something behind him. However, when Tony looks over his shoulder, it is only Bruce returning to them with a rolling cart of some kind. The physicist smiles sheepishly, ducking his head almost submissively to the flyer.

“I didn’t know what he’d like, so I just kind of raided the kitchens for anything with scales,” Bruce announces, gesturing to the table.

Tony cocks a brow at what spoils Bruce has brought him. The table is piled high with all manner of seafood, all snatched from the glorious, renowned kitchens of Stark Tower. Slabs of rosy salmon filets with the skin still on. Fresh whole trout, neatly gutted for stuffing and roasting. Perfect, pale filets of what might be cod or some other light fish stacked together. Ras perks at the sight of the veritable feast, letting out a ‘caroo’ of interest. Tony smirks, grabs one of the hefty salmon filets and tosses for the flyer to snap up with relish; Ras swallows it down and licks his lips in an almost puppy like manner, clearly eager for more.

Bruce chortles, “I think he likes it.”

Tony smiles and the tension bleeds from him as he plucks the next piece of fish from the tray – a lush, meaty chunk of tuna the color of rare beef. He surveys the fatty, marbled belly meat intended as otoro with shrewd eyes that Bruce doubts exactly understands the complexities of sashimi preparation and the quality of the cut. Then, to Bruce’s disgust and Ras’s apparent dismay, Tony takes a bite for himself before offering the rest to the beast.

“You don’t….” Bruce breathes. When Tony looks back, smacking his lips about the mouthful of fish, looking all too at place with the world and the creature behind him, the physicist retreats, “You can eat whatever you want.”

Tony nods and nurses the bite, continuing to offer Ras the various fish that Bruce has found. The _Archaeopteryx_ eagerly crunches through the whole trout, gobbling them up like popcorn. The various white fish filets vanish just as swiftly down his gullet as well, until there is no more. Yet, Ras nudges Tony afterwards, as though begging.

“I’m sorry, Ras,” he apologizes in a hush. “But that’s all there is for now.”

Bruce allows him a moment before clearing his throat. “Uh, Pepper thought you might like breakfast….” When Tony furrows his brow, Bruce stammers, “Upstairs.”

Tony considers Ras briefly before answering, yet the _Archaeopteryx_ has already settled down once more upon the concrete in a coiled ball. A new batch of officers stand at the top of the ramp, and there is always Jarvis to keep watch. Ras will be safe; the flyer has held his own against worse. And the former scout highly doubts anyone will dare come down here and cross the injured beast. He nods.

Bruce wordlessly escorts Tony to the top of the Tower by way of a secure service elevator that is wonderfully devoid of any other traffic to spy the curious state of Tony Stark. Thankfully, the physicist says nothing. He merely brings Tony to the penthouse and sets him in front of the table. Pepper emerges from the kitchen with a steaming mug of coffee and a plate piled high with all sorts of tempting breakfast items, beaming proudly and fiercely as she sets the thing before him. Yet, to her rather evident disappointment, Tony merely stares initially at the stack of gluten free waffles, crispy bacon, and fresh berries – a meal the old Tony would have shoveled down his gullet with gusto before tramping off to the lab to work on some other inexplicable project. The inventor stares the plate down with the same sort of disdain or simply distrust as a small child might when presented with vegetables.

Pepper frowns and slowly, awkwardly offers Tony nearly everything in the kitchen, as though desperate to tempt him. In the end, Tony plucks a single apple from a bowl of fruit, a meager appeasement to the woman’s attempts. She breathes a small sigh of relief when he finishes the first apple before devouring another three in short order.

When he slows and seems to lose interest in eating, Bruce gently probes, “How about a shower?”

Tony wrinkles his nose but nods and rises. Bruce stands as well, as though to show the inventor the way, but Tony quickly waves him off brusquely. The physicist still follows like a puppy, irritating Tony; he knows where to find the bathroom in the penthouse he designed. Yet, when faced with the lavish but traditional bathroom, Tony pauses at the door uncertainly. He is unaccustomed to solitary bathing after so long in the communal spaces of the _Nautilus._

Tony masks his discomfort at the thought of solitude by grunting, “Bring me up to speed.”

Bruce turns away from him and leans against the doorframe to offer Tony some privacy before beginning to drone on in soft, dulcet tones. His presence grounds Tony enough to peel away his leathers and step into the shower. It takes him a queer moment to recall how to operate the complex mechanisms of the shower, but he manages. In the meantime, Bruce just keeps speaking, his words about r&d developments and new papers washing over Tony without really registering any of it.

As Tony stands under the hot spray, he surveys the bottles of likely overpriced soaps, shampoos, and conditioners that line the shelves. He opens one, sniffs it, and immediately snaps the cap shut. It is too sickly sweet, too fake. The second proves just as saccharine and distasteful. He has grown too adjusted to the natural castile soaps of the _Nautilus_ to stand the overwhelming, manufactured perfumes of these soaps. After a few more false starts, Tony finds a bodywash he can almost bear and uses it to scrub himself down from head to toe, even in his hair.

Once finished, Tony fumbles briefly to cut off the water and step from the shower, only to catch sight of himself in the mirror. He stares at the curious creature peering back at him. The man in the mirror is not the billionaire inventor and playboy that last stood in this bathroom. Yet, the chiseled, solemn man with the dripping, long braids and single black feather plaited among them seems improbably alien in the scene. He sighs and shakes his head.

Before he can do anything and well before Bruce can warm him, Steve comes bounding into the bedroom towards the bathroom. Steve stops, gapes, and whips about with a start and a muttered apology. Tony blinks and, then, recalls his own nudity – something which had been a rather non-issue on the _Nautilus._

“Sorry,” Tony murmurs as he grabs a towel and wraps it about his hips.

Steve shakes his head curtly. “No, no. My bad.”

“What is it?”

Steve swallows and looks down. “The vet called. We should get down there.”

Tony glances about fiercely and spies no clothes for him save his flight leathers. He knows he cannot wear those. Not now, perhaps not ever again depending on what happens with Ras. He darts from the bathroom and ransacks the closets, but there is similarly nothing to be found on any of the hangers. There is no men’s clothing, only women’s smart suits and elegant dresses. A part of him warms to note that Pepper has taken no new lover to this bed, but another part of him fumes at the lack of options.

Fortunately, Bruce comes to his rescue, locating a box tucked in the back of the closet and pulling a worn pair of jeans and an all too familiar Black Sabbath t-shirt. Tony pauses, his hands ghosting over clothes he knows had been his own so very long ago. She saved them. Warmth spreads through him, flushing outward from his heart.

Tony drops the towel to dress, garnering another quick aversion of gaze from both Steve and Bruce. It draws a minute smirk from Tony. He remembers enjoying pressing their buttons on and off. The inventor swiftly files this away for further usage at their expense but spares not a moment in pulling on the limited clothing and stuffing his feet back in the worn leather boots of his uniform before stomping off, leaving Steve and Bruce to catch up.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The waiting room to veterinary clinic is in a much quieter state that morning than the day before, but the staff remains in quite an uproar. The staff bustles and blusters at the arrival of the infamous Tony Stark, Steven Rogers, and Bruce Banner, nearly falling over themselves to attend to the three. As they do and as Tony speaks, a howl echoes from the back, low and baleful.

Tony blanches visibly as he gasps, “Tate.”

Before Steve can stop him, Tony pushes through the staff and barges into the back area of the clinic. The staff calls after him, but the inventor ignores them. He turns about, following the sorrowed sounds of the dog crying out until he shoves into a kennel area. There, before a cage holding the little white and red dog that Steve brought the day before, albeit short one leg, Tony falls to his knees.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry.”

The dog whimpers at Tony, but its tail wags limply. Tony puts on a half-heartedly smile as he reaches to unlatch the door. One of the staff opens her mouth to balk, but Steve silences them with a single finger to his lips. Tony eases the door to the cage open and halts, almost afraid to touch the dog before him. Yet, when the dog makes another pained sound, Tony reaches out and tenderly scoops up the thing and hugs it close, shushing the canine.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” Tony whispers. “It’s okay. I’m not leaving you here.”

Someone – the veterinarian – taps Steve on the shoulder and whispers into his ear, “You asked us to call.” The older man clears his throat meaningfully. “He should really stay here for observation.”

Steve shakes his head slowly. “No. We’re bringing him home.”

It takes some preparation and no small amount of wrangling on both Steve’s and Bruce’s part as Tony continues to hold and console the quivering, whimpering pup, but, in time, they convince the veterinarian that this is for the best. Steve lies and insists it is a matter of national security – that the dog is key to an ongoing investigation in which the Avengers are involved – managing to craft a plausible enough excuse that the staff seems to believe. Bruce assures him that they will provide for the canine and be in contact as necessary. Tony largely ignores them until the veterinarian explains in rigorous detail the care and medications that the dog will need; then, he listens but says nothing.

When it is time to leave, Tony rises and pauses, furrowing his brow. He has been away from this world for so very long, but not so long as to forget the necessities of life. The clinic will need to be paid for services rendered – even if they have permanently maimed Dr. Tate under the guise of sparing his meager life. Yet, Tony has no money, nothing to his name. In all legal regards, Tony Stark is dead, and all of his fortune and property would have passed to Pepper Potts, the Avengers, and to assorted charities denoted in his will.

He swallows uncomfortably and looks to the vet. “I’m sorry.” Tony chuckles oddly, choking on the sound. “I don’t actually have any money.”

The vet exchanges a glance with Steve, but the soldier is quick to pipe up, “Don’t worry about it.”

Tony nods slowly. The meaning is not lost to him; Steve has paid the clinic in advance, likely from his own pocket, knowing the big softy. The once inventor and Avenger says not a thing but eases from the clinic, ferrying the dog in his arms with as minute jostling as possible. The walk back to the Tower is decidedly the most harrowing minutes of his life, as each tiny movement elicits a whine or flinch from the dog. Steve and Bruce follow just a few strides behind, murmuring to one another in tones too low for Tony to catch.

At the Tower, Tony is left with the awkwardness of deciding what exactly to do with Dr. Tate. He knows he could very well leave the dog in the middle of the common areas of the penthouse, but that seems too inconsiderate of his nature. Yet, Tony does not know if _he_ has a bedroom, let alone one to spare for the dog.

Pepper, fortunately, is miles ahead of him as always, ever prepared to address any eventuality of life with Tony Stark and the Avengers. She gently guides him towards the sunken couches in the large, open floor plan living room where a veritable nest of blankets and pillows has been constructed on the floor. A bowl of fresh water sits nearby, at close reach for the pup. Tony eases the dog onto the cobbled together bed, wincing when the canine whines from the displacement.

Tony glances about wildly, but, then, Steve is at his side with the collar in hand. The inventor snatches the electronic collar and loops it about the little spaniel’s neck. The dog flinches but settles as Tony buckles the thing about him and activates the device.

The dog blinks slowly and, then, settles and almost unnaturally knowing gaze upon Tony while the collar emits a decidedly robotic sounding drone, “Fuck you.”

Both Pepper and Bruce jump at the sound, but Steve holds his ground as Tony laughs and greets warmly, “Welcome back to the land of the living, Dr. Tate.”

“You took my leg,” the synthetic voice sounds impossibly accusing despite the lack of human intonation.

Steve frowns. “I’m sorry. There was…” he loses the words, suddenly feeling quite stupid. “Tony?”

The inventor does not take his eyes from the dog. “He’s a _medical_ doctor. You can tell him.”

Steve takes a deep breath and lets it all out, like lancing a wound. He explains the veterinarian’s findings as best as he recalls. Then, after a pregnant pause, Steve apologizes profusely again and again, unable to stop himself. The super soldier tries desperately to let the dog know that he had no idea; he assures the dog that he would never have made such a decision if he’d only known.

“Shut up.” The dog emits a low growl as the collar drones. Those dark eyes lift to Tony. “Wake me when it’s meds time.”

Tony nods. “Will do. You rest.”

xxx

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xxx

The day progresses strangely. Tony drifts through the penthouse and the Tower with Steve and Bruce follow in his uncertain wake, letting him sift through his own jumbled memories and emotions. However, their presence feels too…. too much. Too much of what, Tony cannot be certain. He checks on Dr. Tate and administers his medications before attempting to retire to his old bedroom, only to find that his feet refuse to budge beyond the entry, that his lungs will draw no breath in that space that had once been so intimate to him.

Instead, he flees. Tony bolts back for the subterranean and hopefully temporary lair of Ras in the parking garage. It is simpler to be there. The rest of the Tower is fraught with pressure to be someone else. Steve’s haunting, dogging presence impossibly demands him to be Tony Stark, Ironman and Avenger. Bruce’s quiet pressing pushes him to be the inventor, the genius. And Pepper, and the bedroom? A lover he is not certain that still remains. In the parking garage, he need only be Harrow, without any cumbersome emotional demands from Ras. There, Harrow can breathe without the overwhelming reminders of his existence as Tony Stark.

Bruce and Pepper thankfully do not follow, but Steve does. The long-suffering captain keeping vigil over his wayward compatriot. Tony knows he should be touched, but, instead, it annoys him. Harrow ignores Steve’s watchful gaze and focuses on Ras. Bruce joins him through the day to help change the bandages on the shattered wing and to escort Tony back to Dr. Tate to administer another round of medication and attempt to coax him to eat some chopped raw beef – what Tony knows is likely tenderloin granted the others’ stifling need to smother Tony in care and concern.

Tony turns to bolt back for the parking garage, but Pepper stops him with just the hint of food. He eats, greedily and swiftly, hardly tasting the meal before returning to the strange sanctuary of the parking garage. This time, Bruce follows him as Pepper presses her lips into a thin line in what might be hurt or betrayal.

Bruce draws him back to the penthouse for dinner and the dog, but, when the three attempt to convince Tony to stay, he retreats once more to the parking garage and Ras. Steve follows silently as Bruce stays. Tony ignores it, as does he when Bruce lingers and places a comforting hand on Pepper’s shoulder. It is too much for him to face, not yet, not when he can bury his face in the soft, downy, ebony feathers of Ras.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Morning comes with a restlessness from Ras stirring about him, jostling Harrow and dragging him slowly from slumber. As his muscles move and shift, Harrow involuntarily moans from the dull aches that sound through him. The strain of the days has not fully dawned until that morning, nor has the discomfort of sleeping upon the cold concrete even nestled amid Ras. Now, all the little hurts, bruises, strains and injuries are all too apparent, each flaring in its own way. Harrow rises cautiously, stretching as he does and groaning.

Quite abruptly, Harrow is aware of another presence in the garage before even setting eyes on the newcomer. His mind supplies the name before even looking to her; Natasha Romanoff. The spy sits not far away, perched effortlessly upon a concrete K-rail beside a brown paper bag, her steady gaze fixed upon him over a steaming to-go cup of coffee. Yet, while the others seem to press upon him, there is something easy and undemanding about her presence as Natasha sips her coffee.

Tony looks down, steadying himself before asking, “Come to babysit?”

“You’re a big boy,” Natasha quips, tossing the bag. Tony catches it, and she smirks. “I think you can take care of yourself.”

He rummages through the bag and finds a blueberry muffin inside. “Thanks.” He nibbles at the muffin briefly; it’s good. “You missed the fun.”

Natasha shrugs a single shoulder, a coy, elegant gesture. “It looked like you had everything under control.” She takes a controlled step to the side as Ras rises to his full height, but it does not escape Tony’s notice that it is a calculated retreat as the spy explains coolly, “Clint and I had some business to attend to out of the country.” Tony bobs his head briefly, but Natasha continues, “Clint is severely jealous of you guys, by the by. The dragon thing? He’s been geeking out about it big time.”

“ _Archaeopteryx,_ ” Tony gently corrects, letting the word roll comfortably off his tongue and savoring the sound before asking, “So, is this a social visit, or have you come to assess how much of a security threat I am?”

“Are you a security threat?” Natasha deadpans with a mischievous look.

“No.”

Natasha smirks. “Good enough for me.”

Tony sighs heavily and shakes his head. “Steve thinks I am.”

“Ah, no,” the spy corrects primly with a wag of her finger. “If Steve thought you were a threat, he wouldn’t have left you alone for a second. He’s just worried about you, but you should know that by now.” She jerks her head in the direction of the beast. “So, Bruce told me your friend has a taste for fish and that you guys already raided the kitchens.”

“And?”

The woman slides closer and presses a second cup of coffee into his hand. “So, come with me.”

Tony does not argue; he knows better than to argue with Natasha Romanoff. Instead, he follows her as she leads him from the base of the Tower and into a predawn glow. He blinks in surprise, having expected it to be later in the morning before recalling that his own schedule from the _Nautilus_ demanded he rise, bathe, dress, eat, and report for duty before daybreak. The city remains peaceful and silent in the morning, the street only occupied by a few city workers and police officers guarding the entrance to the garage. Natasha waves to the guards and bats her eyes.

At the curb, her car awaits. Tony vaguely remembers a different vehicle. This is a newer model, but it is equally sleek and fast looking, the sort of elegant sports car he knows he would drive. He does not know the name or make. His head swims to realize just how much must have changed in industry and science during his time spent on the _Nautilus_ , but there is no time to contemplate such matters as she speeds them across town to the water’s edge, to the docks.

When she parks, he wrinkles his nose, but Natasha just smiles wider. “Trust me.” The warehouses of the dock are noisy from the distance of the street, but Natasha tosses her head in their direction and insists, “You’re going to love this.”

She leads him to the nearest warehouse, to a side door lined with stiff, plastic flaps; she slides easily between them and holds the curtain for Tony to join her. Inside, it is madness. The warehouse hosts the largest market Tony has ever laid eyes upon, a bounty of fresh fish spread over a span nearly the size of a football field. Row upon row of tables and stalls extends as far as Tony can see amid the crowd, each piled with a smorgasbord of seafood. The place is packed, filled with countless merchants, retailers, and restauranteurs assessing, arguing, and otherwise haggling over all manner of seafood. He blinks in wonder and glances to Natasha.

“If you want the best fish, you need to get up pretty early in the morning,” she croons. “So, c’mon. Take your pick. My treat.”

They spend a half an hour together strolling the stalls and perusing the fish before Tony selects two whole yellowfin tuna of excellent quality. He can see the freshness in the color of their skin alone, as sharp and clear as if plucked from the sea within the last few hours; Tony knows they will be expensive and winces when he considers the price. He looks for something cheaper, but, before Tony can say anything, Natasha is already speaking in low, Russian tones with the fishmonger. They exchange various gestures, their hands waving as though conducting. Tony listens to the haggling with mild interest. They squabble for a moment, but, then, Natasha laughs and shakes the merchant’s hand. The fishmonger packs the yellowfin almost reverently for them and hands them to the two Avengers.

As they leave, Natasha whispers in Tony’s ear. “You’re lucky.”

“Why?” he asks. “He try to overcharge?”

Natasha giggles. “No. He almost made me take the whole lot.”

She has him place the tuna in the trunk before they rocket back to the Tower. Ras greedily feasts upon them when offered. Afterwards, Tony ascends the Tower, showers, tends to Dr. Tate and eats his own breakfast before returning to Ras.

Another day progresses.

xxx

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xxx

In time, a routine develops. In the morning, Tony wakes and ascends the Tower to offer Dr. Tate both breakfast and his medicine. He showers swiftly and walks to the fish market, sometimes accompanied by Natasha, sometimes by Steve, but never by Bruce. There, he grows to know the vendors and their wares, and he grows accustomed to the others paying for him. He returns and feeds Ras. Bruce helps him tend to Ras’s wounds, following by assisting with Dr. Tate. After, Tony takes Dr. Tate out, onto the balcony to sit in the sunlight for lunch. In the afternoons, after a quick check on Ras, Tony wanders the Tower with either Bruce or Steve at his side, surveying what has become of his home and businesses. Evening brings dinner and a return to Ras in the parking garage.

The days wear one into another awkwardly at best. Steve’s worry is a smothering thing, and Pepper’s avoidance is uncomfortable at best. Ras is an oversized bundle of agitation at the best of times to be so confined and grounded. And Dr. Tate? Dr. Tate seems bitter and sorrowed by the whole, messy affair of losing his own leg, barely capable of getting around. Clint is too excitable, too animated about the presence of the seemingly mythological existence of dragons and talking dogs. Natasha and Bruce are at least quietly accepting of this new creature that is Tony Stark without compromise or any demands, yet that too is occasionally too much for Tony.

Through it all, the silent, impassive severed, mechanical head of the Captain stares out from where it sits forgotten in the shop, as though bearing curious and impassive witness to all these jumbled affairs.

Eventually, though, life has a way of stuttering onwards. Pepper works diligently to return Tony’s status to that of the living and to renew both his finances and legal standings while simultaneously tightly controlling public relations to prevent Tony from facing any sort of media frenzy. The other Avengers respond to various actions, yet they do not offer any demands or requests for his assistance as Ironman. The grotesque incision running the length of Tate’s shoulder knits and heals; he begins to take timid steps about the penthouse, limping and stumbling as he struggles to learn to move on three legs instead of four.

And, then, one day, to Tony’s great horror, Ras heals enough to burst from the garage. Fortunately, it happens in the late night as he slumbers beside the beast. The _Archaeopteryx_ wakes him with a mighty roar before thundering from the garage. The inventor bolts after the creature, but it is too late. The officers that guard the garage’s entrance jump in fright, but neither Ras nor Tony pay them any attention as Ras briefly flails at the side of the building. Then, suddenly, his claws find purchase and the flyer begins to scale the Tower little by little as Tony holds his breath, growling at his own limits.

Ras climbs to the top and stops at the balcony. There, he briefly huffs before settling down. Tony and the rest of Manhattan sighs in relief. It seems the creature only needed the sight of the open skies to calm its ragged nerves.

Weeks pass in this manner, until, one day, months after the fall of the _Nautilus_ , Ras’s injury heals enough for the beast to take a few, tentative beats of his wings. It is not much, but the creature rises ever so slightly. Tony smiles, and Ras practically beams in return with a wicked, toothy grin and a purring sound of utter pleasure. A few weeks’ time finds Ras gliding in lazy circles about the tip of the Tower, riding upon gentle thermals.

Then, one morning, Tony awakes as Ras slips away from him and takes to the heavens in the predawn glow; Ras does not look back.

That night, without the excuse of Ras to hide behind, Tony goes to Pepper. She welcomes him with open arms and draws him close. He blurts out a myriad of apologies, but Pepper shushes him. Pepper coaxes him to lie with her and talk – _just_ talk. The years of distance between them fade away as the words melt together. That night, Tony falls asleep with Pepper in his arms, and it feels like the first _right_ thing in his life in an extremely long time.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Weeks pass uncertainly for Tony Stark without Ras; he spends his days idly wandering the Tower without purpose, without cause or need. Steve still maintains a wary caution about him, and, so, when the Avengers are called upon to save the world – or simply the day – Tony remains behind at the Tower. He watches them go with a pang in his heart, missing the skies and the excitement, but he cannot bring himself to join entirely. He has no heart for the many business and financial affairs of Stark Industries, preferring to allow Pepper to deal with such things.

He does not wish to venture beyond the Tower – not during the daytime, at least. The city is too busy, too chaotic for him, caught up in seemingly pointless, empty endeavors. It gnaws at him in a way that unsettles Tony when he tries to leave without the distraction of a task. During the early morning twilight, however, he does make it as far as the monument.

It is a garish, gaudy thing. Tony spends many hours in the dim, predawn light staring at the monument to his supposed death and finding nothing beneath the sightless gaze of the sculpted Ironman statue before him. It does not escape Pepper’s or Steve’s notice. Steve inquires once of it, offering to schedule for the monument’s removal, but Tony shrugs it off. He does not know if he cares enough to ask them to destroy the thing, mostly because Tony does not know what it means to him.

Eventually, after much tempting and goading from Bruce, Tony visits the labs. As soon as he sets foot in the lab he had shared so very long ago, it is like stepping back in time, back before his crash into the North Atlantic and into a day just after the Battle of New York. It is taking a breath after rising from the depths once more.

As Tony settles into work long forgotten, Bruce feigns his own work to avoid staring with that stupid grin of his.

That night, when they sit down to dinner with the others, Tony feels more at home in his own skin. He laughs at Clint and Bruce’s jokes and even offers his own sarcastic jabs. Natasha and Pepper speak warmly and lovingly before sniping in return. And Steve? Steve smiles one of those earnest expressions that reaches his eyes. It lightens Tony’s heart, even as he fingers the long feather still plaited in his hair.

The next morning finds Clint in the lab hunting down Tony. The archer brings the curious request to decrease the size of tracking devices used with his arrows, as well as refining his quiver’s delivery system. Tony sees right through Clint’s awkward fumbling to realize that the archer and spy has been put up to this by someone. He refrains from comment and simply agrees. The inventor knows that Clint and the others are merely attempting to make him feel useful and a part of the team once more. He sets to work immediately.

A few days later, Natasha stops by to see him bearing an unusual gift. It seems one of the many toys she liberated from SHIELD before its collapse included a prototype pistol keyed to selective use by fingerprint identification. Regrettably, the spy has been unable to unlock the pistol, and it has sat collecting dust. She asks Tony find a way to unlock it or change the registration to her. He nods and adds it to his projects, mindful that Natasha owns an entire arsenal of firearms and has no dire need for this single pistol.

By the time Bruce asks Tony to assist with radio telescopes for deep space monitoring for threats, he feels like he belongs so much more.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

“I broke it.”

There is something sorrowed to Steve’s voice when he holds out his tablet to Tony, the screen shattered and ruined. His lower lip trembles, and his eyes gleam as though with unshed tears. Tony blinks stupidly at the sadness and shame written so plainly on the super soldier’s face, and he gingerly accepts the device.

Tony briefly surveys the thing, before letting out a low, appreciative whistle at the damage. “I’ll say. What it do to piss you off?”

Steve grips the lab table tightly, squeezing down until the metal groans beneath his fingers. He jumps, as though startled by his own strength and raw power. Steve stares at his hands with wide eyes and just shakes his head glumly. Tony feels uncomfortable watching the soldier and Avenger so raw and so pained.

When Steve speaks, he does not even look up. “Tony, they’re all asking about you. Politicians, news people, gossip columnists. I get about a hundred e-mails and voicemails a day, all asking if you’re coming back to the Avengers.” There is a wetness to his voice, but he does not shed a single tear when the soldier laments, “I don’t know what to tell them, Tony.”

Tony purses his lips together briefly before slapping a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “Tell them, ‘Fuck it.’”

Steve chuckles briefly and, then, grows serious once more. “I’m worried about Tate, Tony. He spends all day just staring out those windows like he’s waiting for them to come back.” He sighs. “I don’t think they’re ever coming back.”

“She will,” Tony growls under his breath before waving Steve off. “Go, go. Let the maestro work his magic.”

xxx

xxxx

xxx

Tony has noticed it, time and time again. All Dr. Tate does day in and day out is stare out the windows, growing increasingly listless and despondent. He occasionally rises to tend to bodily needs but otherwise spends the rest of his days at the windows.

When asked, Jarvis is swift to supply all the limited data available on one Dr. Stephen Tate. Tony scrutinizes college transcripts from the Solomon H. Snyder Department of Neuroscience at Johns Hopkins. He skims complicated journal articles written by Tate documenting progressive neurological degenerative diseases, following a gradual trend in topics. Jarvis even supplies a copy of Tate’s medical license and the few limited photographs available – all demonstrating a young, fit man with dark hair and troubled eyes, clearly bowed by the weight of his studies. Yet, he remains the picture of human health and the height of academic and medical achievement, even a model pet owner standing beside a supposedly prize-winning Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.

When read in chronological order, the papers take a dramatic turn. Slowly, Tate’s work de-evolves from treatment of degenerative diseases, to stabilization of nerve tissue, to nerve replacement and maintenance of mind. They begin to drift further and further from mere study and into a hazy territory of theoretical work that seems increasingly bound for annuls of science fiction, with more and more suggestion of communication devices and aids.

Yet, Tony cannot deny the talking dog with advanced knowledge of medicine.

Then, tragedy struck. According to the newspaper clippings, it appears Dr. Stephen Tate died following an automobile accident. It seems Dr. Tate ran out into traffic and was struck by a semi. He survived to be medevacked to the nearest trauma center. Jarvis supplies the medical records, all documenting horrific bodily damage to which Tate eventually succumbed. However, Tony knows that not to be the case.

He considers Tate’s work and the unusual circumstances of his “passing” before realizing the truth of it all.

“Hey, doc, got a problem for you,” Tony calls one lazy afternoon.

The little spaniel jumps to its feet, and the mechanical voice drones to him with a buzz. “What’s wrong?”

“You designed this thing, right?”

“You’ve been reading up on me?” Dr. Tate inquires in return.

“Maybe,” Tony says with a slight shrug.

The spaniel gives a whine. “The original design, no. This model, yes. A vast improvement over the original, I assure you.”

“Well?” Tony taps the neural link at his temple and plasters a scowl across his face. “Am I stuck with this thing for the rest of my life?”

The dog seems to frown strangely, with an almost human expression. “Regrettably, yes. The neural link implants itself too deeply to remove safely.” The dog sniffs oddly. “I’m sorry.”

Tony folds his arms across his chest. “Anything we can do to get it back up and running so it can at least be useful?” The dog makes a suspicious sound, and Tony smirks. “After all, who better to ask than the guy who perfected it?”

The dog growls softly beneath the synthetic voice. “Fine.”

After that, Dr. Tate becomes a regularly fixture in the lab as well; anything to keep him from sulking at the windows.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Dr. Tate works side by side with Banner and Stark, making comments and calculations instead of performing physical labor. In time, Tony peels away. He leaves Bruce to keep the doctor busy while he tends to another matter.

Getting the neural-link up and running is a boon, he knows. It will put him in instantaneous connection with Jarvis and the Ironman armor when he finally suits up once more. It will bring him real time information without necessitating an intermediary like Jarvis. It will decrease his own reaction times in the suit and increase his efficiency as an Avenger – should he return to heroics for good. It heralds nothing but good things so long as it can be brought to run on a secure platform, and it will serve as distraction enough for Dr. Tate’s wounded heart and soul.

Yet, there is something that Tony must understand; he needs to know why.

Tony secrets the head of the Captain to a quiet, disused computer lab a few floors away from the main labs to study the thing. He runs several scans and takes preliminary measurements to ensure that there is no harm in pulling any of the data from the thing. When he finds none, Tony cobbles together a means to hardwire the head to perhaps the only computer in the Tower completely cut off from any network – no hard connection and no wireless adapter either. The inventor quickly writes a program to harvest any and all data from the head and waits until the processing is complete. Then, with that accomplished, Tony sets in to survey the coding that crafted the Captain.

It takes some time to decipher the coding language. It is unlike anything Tony has ever seen in his life, rudimentary by compare to modern programming languages but highly sophisticated and unearthly nuanced. At the core, however, the operating system bears many of the hallmarks of modern coding, albeit constructed in different manners, including comments to his very great wonder.

The first comment reads :

_“I, Maharajkumar Dakkar, son of the Maharaja of Bundelkund and known to the world as Captain Nemo of the submarine vessel_ Nautilus, _do hereby commission this automaton into the service of the ship and her crew as First Mate in this the 14 th of October in the year of 1868 as decreed by Christendom. By this artificial existence shall the crew be kept safe beyond the limitations of human failings.” _

Tony’s stomach falls into a great pit. “Jarvis, when did the original Nemo die in the books?”

“October 15th, 1868,” the artificial intelligence supplies matter-of-factly.

Tony shudders and swallows convulsively; it cannot be a coincidence. Either the original Nemo constructed the Captain to replace him in the face of his own mortality, or the Captain hastened the matter. Both are entirely unsavory notions in a certain light.

Tony forcibly turns his focus away from the gloomy thoughts and back to the code. Nemo’s handiwork elegantly threads throughout the operating language with postscripts and notations in the comments that speak of a man of great intelligence and skill despite the limitations of the day. The subtlety to his code is impressive even in this day and age. Try though he might, it is almost impossible not to marvel at the craftsmanship necessary to fabricate such code

Yet, Tony spies errors here and there, comments that do not match the vocabulary and diction of the original Nemo. They appear as adjustments and alterations to the code, additions in parts as well that contradict prior portions of the code. The inventor knows the errors do not stem from Nemo’s handiwork, but it takes him some time to uncover the source – the Captain himself. Each of the new comments bears a numbered codex, many in large batches. They are software upgrades that appear to correspond with physical upgrades detailed in the comments. They are the sort of errors created in betterment and evolution that have only previously occurred in biological replication and in only certain circles of speculative artificial intelligence theory.

Then, it is all quite clear. In the middle of a chunk of code apparently regarding the prime objective of the Captain, there lies several errors that contradict one another. The original Nemo’s coding specified for the Captain to take over the position in the wake of his passing, maintain the vessel, and serve to shelter the crew. There are multiple revisions that all seem to counteract each other and the original coding. The inventor briefly struggles with ascertaining exactly how each new statement affects the overall mission before realizing that they all lead to one, new mission above all others.

_Protect the crew; continue the crew._

Tony reads and rereads the code again and again to be certain. In the edited comments stemming from the Captain’s revision to its own code, there lies the story. After the end of the original Ker Karraje, the Captain’s alterations shifted its own code away from simply maintaining the then existing crew to ensuring a permanent future for the crew. This meant creating more and fabricating a necessity for the crew to exist – this meant creating a new threat, a new Ker Kerraje.

Tony laughs to himself mirthlessly, understanding now why. The Captain selected them all to maintain his – _its_ – private mission of proliferating the crew. Dr. Tate for the neural link. Weatherlight for her access to the finances of the original Nemo and the Arronax family. And he? Tony for the arc reactor, naturally. Like a master chess player, the Captain selected his pieces and manipulated them until the precise moment to strike. Only with all these pieces in place could the Captain seek to further the crew outward, spreading from New York like a virus to infect any and all who drew to near. A world populated with crew to the _Nautilus_ and loyalties only to the Captain is the only world in which the future of the crew is assured.

It is almost too clever to have been a mere accident, but the signs are all there. In furthering himself and bettering himself, the Captain accidentally penned his own failings. It is absurdly simple and yet horrible all the same, like a Greco-Roman tragedy. Tony roars at the audacity of it all, the sheer lunacy until he is crying in small, barely constrained sobs when he understands that everything that has happened, all his suffering and his torture, was all carefully plotted.

Tony wonders with a fresh ache in chest whether it is worse that circumstance of chance coding errors doomed him or that his closest friend and mentor did the same once intentionally. As he chews his lip to stem the tears, Tony’s hand reaches up, under his shirt to stroke the arc reactor’s housing. The warm metal to the external collar is almost reassuring in a way, grounding him back to reality.

That night, Tony uses a repulsor to incinerate both the Captain’s synthetic head and the computer until there is nothing left but charred, molten ruins.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

Another season passes, fall bleeding into winter marked by wild progress. Dr. Tate and Bruce get the neural link back running, and it is a miracle. Nimue had been incredible, but it is nothing compared to having a direct connection to Jarvis. Tony knows Jarvis intimately, and the connection allows him to make leaps and bounds in his progress. Days later, he dons the Ironman suit and flies into battle with the Avengers; it is beyond compare.

They celebrate that night. Beer, pizza, and liberal affection from Pepper. Even Sam and the elusive Ant-Man join in the fun, although Scott Lang appears much too awed and nervous in the presence of “ _the_ Tony Stark” to enjoy himself. They stay up until dawn like a gaggle of teenagers before eventually dozing in front of bad cartoons in the middle of the penthouse with Dr. Tate curled up beside him. It is somehow sweeter than any day on the _Nautilus_ , possibly because the memory of those days is fading even now.

Two days later, that warm feeling is dashed by a single card of mail.

It is a postcard addressed to Tony Stark. On the front is a sandy, sun-drenched, tropical beach with a spiraling shell resting before low, rolling waves. Bright script across the top declares “Greetings from Acapulco.” There is no name, no real message. There is only a single, ornately penned “N” underlined by a drawing of a single, black feather.

Tony dutifully presents the card to Dr. Tate, who sniffs the card and parts his jowls in what seems a smile. “It’s her.”

A week later, a news article catches Tony’s eye amid the stacks of newspapers Pepper skims through every morning. The _New York Post_ reports that the scouts and their flyers have been spotted in the redwood forests of California. The charitably dubbed newspaper goes on to slander the scouts and fling wild speculations about their intent. Bitterness and anger flares briefly in Tony upon reading their scandalous notions, but he is well aware that no reporter, no journalist knows anything truthful about Weatherlight and her kin. Tony focuses instead on the grainy, overly zoomed in images of the _Archaeopteryx_ roosting atop the massive redwood trees.

That night, when Clint asks, bashful at his own excitement, Tony gladly points out each he can identify from the pictures. Sava. Kai. Gulliver. And the largest, easily dwarfing the others, can be none other than Ras, having obviously reclaimed his place amid the flyers. 

A month later, another postcard arrives, this time from Washington state. He cannot articulate why, but it cuts to the quick of him, inexplicably hurting like nothing else. Tony knows he should be happy to receive this card, confirmation that the other scouts have given the news the slip, but it has quite the opposite effect. It leaves him feeling acutely abandoned and lost even after all his many strides to reclaim his life. That night, Tony drinks, gulping down fine brandies and scotches like nothing more than swill while Dr. Tate whines at his feet. The inventor drinks until he quite honestly drops in front of the bar. It is enough to upset and frighten Pepper enough to call Steve, who tends to him.

“They’re not coming back,” Tony laments in a long slur.

Dr. Tate whimpers but says nothing through his collar. Steve bites his lip, mindful not to utter such things in front of the dog. Jarvis has explained what little they know of the physician’s life, and solider knows Tate has suffered enough without them reminding him of all that he has lost.

“They’ll come back,” the super soldier finally states firmly.

Tony shakes his head and sniffles. “No one ever comes back for me.”

The words smack at Steve like a direct accusation, striking a welt across his heart. He can say nothing to alleviate this hurt. It is a truth that Steve understands all too well. He had been lost at sea as well, searched for and eventually abandoned for dead. However, Steve had slept through it in the ice, frozen and oblivious to the world about him. Tony had _lived_ those months and years alone and forgotten to his knowledge. This has happened to him not once, not twice, but, now, three times over. Worse, they built a monument to his passing, held a funeral. Steve cannot imagine the pain just slowly bottling up in Tony.

“C’mon,” Steve gently pulls him up. “Let’s get you to bed.”

Tony follows, drifting alongside and allowing Steve to deposit him in a guest bedroom. He curls up in the blankets almost immediately, burying his face in the pillows. Steve pauses only to set a bottle of water on the nightstand and a trashcan beside the bed close to Tony’s face. He eases the door shut behind him and retreats to the bar, to where the dog still sits, looking entirely uncertain.

“You want a drink?” Steve offers almost jokingly.

“I can’t get drunk,” the dog answers through his collar.

Steve snorts and shakes his head before fetching a cold beer for himself from the fridge. “Neither can I.”

“It is dangerous for canines to ingest alcohol,” Dr. Tate counters once more.

Steve’s lip quirks into a smirk. “I didn’t ask if you can or if it was good for you. I asked if you _wanted_ a drink.”

The little red and white dog seems to consider this for a moment, canting its head to the side before the collar buzzes, “Fine.”

Steve grabs a saucer from the kitchen, pours a dram of fizzing beer into it, and sets the thing before Dr. Tate. As the dog laps at the beer, Steve nurses a few swigs from the chilly, sweating bottle. The alcohol warms pleasantly down his throat, but Steve knows it will have no effect upon him. His body is already processing the alcohol to remove and remediate it well before he finishes swallowing.

“The others…. They mean a lot to you guys, huh?” Steve asks, the words awkward and stilting; he almost hates himself for the crude phrasing alone.

Dr. Tate makes a weird, plaintive sound, but the collar speaks for him in the dull drone, “They were the only family we had.” The dog looks down, his jowls drooping almost comically sadly. “Who else could accept a monster like me?”

Steve frowns, pursing his lips together. “You’re not a monster.”

The dog snorts. “A man trapped in a dog’s body. A failed science project. Sounds like a sci-fi monster to me.”

Steve shrugs and takes another swig of beer before arguing, “I’m a verified science experiment from the 40s. Pretty certain that doesn’t make me a monster.”

“You did that to save your country.”

The super soldier nods slowly in concession. “Bet you hand your own reasons for ending up the way you are now. Tony…..” Steve begins again oddly, staring at his own, empty bottle. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.” The dog peers upward, and Steve goes on. “They’ll come back for you.”

Dr. Tate offers a wag of his tail, clearly pleased by this, but Steve masks his conflicted feelings behind another drink. These strangers took his friend from them, brainwashed him, remolded him into something else. What they did was no better than what Hydra did to Bucky. Yet, they did it to save him according to Tony. It is an uncomfortable balance between respect and repulsion.

“They will.”

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

The next morning brings not only the predictable hangover from hell but also a strange clarity and stillness to Tony Stark. It is as though the previous night’s drunken stupor has served to clear his mind, to free himself from the uncertainty left in the wake of the _Nautilus_. Even through the haze of a throbbing headache and the twisting of his own stomach, Tony finds himself reinvigorated oddly, starting the day with a fresh attitude and a large, fresh pot of coffee, even bringing a cup and a kiss to Pepper in bed before hitting the shop.

Bruce meets him in the lab in the midmorning, and it is as though the last years without Tony never occurred. He falls easily into step with Tony, just as comfortably as they had while seeking Loki’s staff so many years ago. The physicist makes no comment on the matter. None of the other Avengers offer any commentary either when he steps into battle alongside them.

The cold, cruel winter eventually gives way to the warmth and sunshine of spring.

And, then, one morning, like a punch to the gut, Pepper is shaking him awake by the shoulder. “Tony. Tony, wake up. Tony, look!”

With groggy eyes, he follows her pointed finger to the windows and spies a familiar face on the balcony. Weatherlight. She stands beside Gulliver, stroking his head as though in thanks. Tony blinks and rubs his eyes, thinking it an elaborate dream, but she remains. He leaps to his feet and bursts from the bedroom, almost slamming into Steve and tripping over Dr. Tate. Tony runs down the hall, with the dog skidding along at his heels, down to the common room and the doors. They spill out onto the balcony and right into the waiting arms of Weatherlight.

Tony drinks in the scent of salt and feathers from her, and he breathes into her ear, “You’re back.”

“Of course I’m back,” she tells him in a chiding tone, embracing him warmly.

“You took too long,” Tony sighs into her.

“I’m sorry. It took a while to get settled.”

Tony hugs her harder, gripping tightly to Weatherlight, gritting his teeth against uncomfortable emotions that threaten. Yet, Weatherlight is as firm and grounding as she had been on the _Nautilus._ She is a strange constant in a way that Pepper cannot be. Her presence settles the unease that has been brewing over the last few months, allowing him to breathe.

“Thank you.”

She purrs. “No. Thank you.”

Tony grins from ear to ear. “Come inside. Come meet everyone.”

Weatherlight does. And, although they cannot know it, those first steps of hers into Stark Tower are the first steps towards a new beginning. For Weatherlight and her kind as an extension of the Avengers, and for Tony back to some semblance of normalcy.

xxx

xxxxx

xxx

 


End file.
